


Voight-Kampff

by sofia_gigante



Series: Blade Runner and Point Man [1]
Category: Blade Runner (1982), Blade Runner (Movies), Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Blade Runner AU, Blade Runner!Eames, Community: inceptiversary, Flirting, Inception Bingo, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Smoking, Voight-Kampff tests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Is you trashing my desk part of the test? If I get pissed off enough it proves that I’m human?”</i>
</p>
<p>Eames is a freelance Blade Runner who is paid to run Voight-Kampff tests on Cobol employees. Arthur is an unflappable data analyst who is obviously hiding something from his new employer. Eames sees an opportunity to earn back his badge...or maybe it's just an excuse to see Arthur again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voight-Kampff

**Author's Note:**

> My first entry to Inception Bingo with the prompt "sexual frustration." It's raw and unbeta-ed, so sorry about the mistakes.
> 
> When I saw Oyonok's amazing [sketch of Arthur and Eames in _Blade Runner_](http://oyonok.tumblr.com/post/147019962071/how-about-an-arthureames-version-of-the-one-and), my brain couldn't stop building a story. _Blade Runner_ had been one of my favorite mythos (film and books) since I was a teenager, so the idea of combining it with _Inception_ was like discovering peanut butter and chocolate for the first time. Thank you, Oyonok for giving me the green light to interpret your art into fic!

_San Francisco, March 2020_

“So, Mr. Kenig, is it?” Eames said amicably, flipping through the file folder he was holding. He didn’t really need to ask—everything he needed to know about his subject was neatly typed out for him on the forms. Name: Arthur Kenig. DOB: 2/14/87.  Place of birth: Boston, MA, USA. Height: 5’9. Weight: blah blah blah.

Eames tossed the folder onto the desk he was reclining on. Arthur winced at the sound of clattering pens and shifting papers, fingers twitching briefly on the armrest of his chair. He looked up at Eames with his brow furrowed, lips pursed in frustration.

“Is you trashing my desk part of the test?” Arthur snapped. “If I get pissed off enough it proves that I’m human?”

“Would it help you to believe that it was?” Eames asked placidly.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head in irritation. “You blade runners and your fucking questions.”

“Oh, so I’m not your first?” Eames couldn’t help the honeyed edge to his words, the hint of innuendo. It was partially out of habit—a further bit of personality test to see if the subject reacted to flirting with anger, discomfort, or humor. But, to be fair, it was also because Arthur was practically begging to be baited with that whole tough-guy act of his.

“No, you're not,” Arthur said flatly, meeting Eames' gaze defiantly. In the dim office light, his brown eyes were dark as coal. They would’ve been hard to read if Eames has been working with one of the newer Voight-Kampff machines. Lucky him, he supposed, that he used an older, electrode-based model.

“This’ll be my third Voight-Kampff test," Arthur continued. "Your records should show that.”

Of course the records had shown it. Most earth-based employers were requiring it as part of their hiring processes, as the replicant rebellion gained traction in the off-world colonies. Surprise Voight-Kampff tests were now as common as drug screenings—which meant plenty of work for even blacklisted blade runners such as Eames.

“Don’t you need to set up your little machine?” Arthur said irately, sounding more put-upon than worried.

“Patience, mate.” Eames pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his worn, brown coat. It was a hideous thing, long out of fashion, but it kept him dry in the city’s months-long rainy season. He offered a cigarette to Arthur, who waved the pack away. Eames lit his smoke with a lighter, then turned his attention to the small, silver briefcase on the table behind him.

“If you’ve been tested twice already, then why aren’t you protesting being tested a third?” Eames asked. From the case he pulled out a pair of small, white electrodes. “Most men in your situation would be up in arms, demanding a lawyer.”

“Because I need to keep this job,” Arthur said flatly. “And I can’t afford a lawyer.”

Eames knew it was very plausible. Quality work was hard to come by on Earth, with most of the biggest companies moving operations off-world. Something must’ve prevented Arthur from joining the exodus—finances or family or fear of space travel. Whatever it was, the result was the same for Arthur as it was for thousands of other earth-bound adults—there simply weren’t enough jobs left to go around.

“This won’t take long. You’ll be back to those spreadsheets before lunch.” Eames said, and turned with the electrodes in his hands.

Arthur balked. “What are those?”

“It’s part of the machine. Granted it’s an older model, but it gets the job done.” _But not as well as that fancy, no-touch number they confiscated along with my badge._

Arthur eyed the machine warily, his posture stiffening in the chair. He looked so much like a boy at the doctor’s office watching the nurse prepare an injection that Eames felt a pang of pity for him.

“It won’t hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Eames surprised himself by saying.

Arthur balked. “I know that,” he snapped, but there was a slight crack in his voice that told Eames otherwise.

Best to just get it over with, then. Eames went to place the electrodes on Arthur’s face.

“OK, wait,” Arthur leaned back, wrinkling his nose. “Could you please not wave that thing right under my nose?” He looked pointedly at the cigarette clamped between Eames’ fingers while he held out the electrodes.

A lance of annoyance cut through Eames. “Fine. Where should I put it then?”

“I don’t care. Just don’t put that thing right near my face!” Arthur waved his hand in front of his nose to banish the smoke, but his eyes were fixed on the glowing red cherry, almost as if he were afraid of it.

“No need to get testy,” Eames kept his tone relaxed as he gave Arthur’s desk a quick scan. No ashtray to be seen. How inconsiderate. You’d think that by 2020 that ashtrays would be part of the standard desk set. He could simply put it out on the floor, but no, it was carpeted. It would leave a burn mark. That left…

He dropped the half-finished cigarette into the ceramic mug on Arthur’s desk, the cherry going out with a quiet _hiss_ in the remaining liquid. He turned to Arthur, a single eyebrow raised apologetically. Yes, it was a dick move, but he’d had little choice. Now, the question was how would Arthur react to it?

Arthur’s mouth opened, and shut, and then opened again. No sound came out, but his face took on a particularly pretty shade of red, like color the clouds turned on the rare occasion there was an actual sunset to be seen in the sky.

“You owe me a fresh cup of coffee,” Arthur’s voice was low and measured. Something about it, the blunt force to his words, his refusal to be intimidated, sent an unexpected flush of heat through Eames.

Arthur was so tightly controlled, from the meticulous cleanliness of his three-piece suit, to the oil-black slick of his hair. It made Eames want to ruffle him, make him stammer, blur those perfect lines…

Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward, and fixed Arthur with a slow, sly grin. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Kenig?”

Arthur’s dark eyes seemed to spark in the dim office light, his jaw tightened, his fingers clenched on the armrest of the chair. Coiled. Dangerous. Delectable.

“Just start the test,” Arthur enunciated every word, as if it took him great effort to keep his ire in check.

God, what the fuck was wrong with Eames? He was hard. Goddamn hard from watching this slight, striking data analyst refuse to give Eames the satisfaction of a genuine emotional reaction. He’d never—in all of his years interrogating potential replicants—had a subject rebel so quietly, so forcefully, and so completely…and he hadn’t even hooked him up to the machine yet.

_Careful, Eames._

Eames shifted on the desk, surreptitiously shifting his long, worn coat over his lap to hide his growing hardness, and picked up the electrodes again. He forced himself to think of unpleasant things to cool his engines—the stack of overdue bills waiting for him at home, the leak in the roof of his apartment, how long it had been since he’d last been laid. When he was confident he wouldn’t embarrass himself, he turned back to Arthur, and leaned forward to place the electrodes on his face.

One on the temple, and one on the slope of that sharp cheekbone. As he smoothed the second one with his thumb, it lingered just a second on Arthur’s skin. His cheek was warm, almost hot, silken. Human.

_Or “more human than human,” the way a replicant should be?_

Arthur didn’t recoil. He didn’t blink. He simply stared at Eames with his coffee-dark eyes, his expression somewhere between curious and exasperated. “Look, can we just get this over with already? I have a mountain of work to get to.”

“You really all that excited to get back to work?” Eames asked, dropping his hand with a slight grin. “You can’t tell me you’d rather crunch those numbers than flirt with me.”

The machine blipped, detecting a capillary dilation. Eames looked triumphantly at Arthur, whose face wore a scowl.

“I am not flirting with you.” Arthur said flatly. The machine gave another bleep, and Arthur’s face muscles tightened.

“You’re the one who asked me out,” Eames pointed out, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket again. Arthur’s face darkened, and the machine gave a series of whirs as it recorded Arthur’s response. “Why did you do that?”

“Why did I want you to pay me what is owed?” Arthur snapped.

“Sure,” Eames said, ignoring Arthur’s irritation as he lit up another smoke. “Why are you making such a big deal over a watery cup of two-hour-old coffee?”

“Because it was _my_ two-hour-old coffee.”

“Technically, it’s Cobol’s coffee. The company could come in and take it back at any time.” Eames took a long drag, studying the readout on the machine. “They could take anything off this desk. Your stapler, your pens, your computer. How does that make you feel?”

Arthur groaned, and sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. Resigned? Ambivalent? What’s the right answer here?”

“Jubilant,” Eames answered without missing a beat. “I would also accept thrilled, joyful, or delighted.”

Arthur simply stared at Eames for a long moment. Then, a split second before the machine beeped, the corners of his mouth twitched up into the barest hint of a smile. Then it was gone, and Eames felt the strangest desire to see it again. Too bad the next question wouldn’t do much for that.

“Tell me why you’re so determined to keep this job. It’s probably the most boring job left on earth.”

“That’s exactly why I want it,” Arthur said evenly. “Steady work, steady pay.”

“You saving up?”

The machine bleeped again. Interesting.

“Isn’t everyone?” Arthur answered. For a man with electrodes stuck to his face, he was remarkably calm. Especially since he was evading.

“Sure. Every person left here on Earth, saving their pennies and pounds to get a ticket off world, start a new life in the colonies.”

“That why you took this job interrogating me?” Arthur asked.

Eames tried to hide the jolt of surprise that coursed through him. Not the first time a subject had tried to turn the test around on him with questions, but this was a new one. A sensitive one, if he was honest with himself. He’d given up on the off-world colonies years ago, after he’d failed the physical for the third time. Not that he was going to tell Arthur that.  

“No. I took this job because when I saw your profile, I knew I had to meet you. The world's most devoted data analyst.” He looked at Arthur intently for a long second, then winked.

There. There! The corners of Arthur’s mouth twitched again, harder, unable to hide the smile that was rapidly becoming a smirk. The machine beeped twice just as Arthur let out a little snort. Then, he sighed, rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Next question.”

*******

That night, Eames tossed in turned in bed. He knew it was more than just the usual lumps in his mattress or the low, incessant beat from the nightclub downstairs keeping him awake. He’d been restless since he’d left the Cobol offices, and not even the long walk home in the San Francisco rain or his dinner of cold dumplings and warm beer could distract him.

Sighing, he gave up on sleep, ignoring the numbers on the clock as they glared 1:37 at him. He shrugged on his bathrobe and went to his desk, dodging the pail collecting dripping rainwater in the middle of the floor. His desk chair gave a loud creak as he settled in and snapped on the light—a cracked Tiffany lamp his  ex-boyfriend had left behind when he’d made the jump to the colonies three years ago. On sleepless nights like this the damn thing couldn’t help but reminds Eames of Robert: brilliant, rich, and elegant—yet broken when you turned it around to see all sides. Gave good light, though, which was why Eames kept it.

Tonight, as it did on most nights, the lamp illuminated a stack of file folders. The pile was smaller than it used to be in the old days, but at least it was enough work to keep Eames fed and housed. For now.

He lit up a cigarette and picked up the first folder on the pile. He opened it, and his gaze immediately came to rest on the small, black and white photograph of Arthur Kenig. Eames’ chest tightened, and he dismissed it as the result of the first puff of nicotine in hours—though deep down he knew better.

Arthur. An interesting subject if Eames had ever encountered one. Despite that cold, controlled demeanor, the Voight-Kampff had identified Arthur as undeniably human within 22 questions. It usually took 30 or so to be sure, but Arthur’s pulse, capillary dilation, and breathing patterns had been so responsive that Eames was suspicious. Arthur was human, for sure…but he was hiding something.

Eames took another long drag off his cigarette as he studied Arthur’s image, read through his notes. What he really wanted to know wouldn’t be written in there, now would it? Thanks to the test’s increasingly complex questions, he knew what Arthur thought of his own mother, or how he’d react if he found a baby bird fallen out of its nest in front of a starving cat. However, it didn’t tell him what a highly educated, perfectly healthy man with no rap sheet was doing signing up for entry-level data analysis with Cobol Engineering. With his qualifications, any offworld company would pay for his space-travel fares to the colonies. So. Why here?

_Not your concern, Eames. You’re paid to sniff our skin jobs, not corporate spies. Your work is done. On to the next batch of employees tomorrow._

He knew he should put Arthur out of his mind. Just close the file folder, turn off the light, and go back to bed to try sleep with his brain spinning and his body humming.

_Hmmm. Now that’s what’s really at the heart of this, isn’t it, Eames?_

Arthur was exactly Eames’ type: lithe, dark-haired, and elegant. He couldn’t help but remind Eames of Robert a little bit, especially with that meticulous charcoal-grey suit and steely expression. That’s all it was, really, a moment of weakness, Eames missing Robert.

_Admit it. It’s not Robert you miss. It’s the sex._

What would Arthur have done if Eames had placed a hand on his thigh, slid it up the tailored line of those slacks? Would he have pushed Eames away with a snarl, or would he have simply sat there, motionless? Or would he have spread his legs farther apart, inviting Eames to explore? Would he have bitten that pink bottom lip, stubbornly refusing to moan as Eames palmed his bulge, rubbing him to hardness through the fabric? Would he have met Eames’ eye, begged quietly for more?

Before he could stop himself, Eames spat into his hand and slid it down the front of his boxers. He roughly stroked the erection that had been plaguing him intermittently for hours, determined to finally be rid of it—along with the image of Arthur arching his back as Eames knelt before him, sucking him off without marring a single line of Arthur’s perfect suit—

Eames came quickly with a strangled groan, his cum soaking into the worn cotton of his boxers. A warm laxness spread through his body and relaxed his muscles, but not the knot in his chest. He sighed as he wiped his hand off on his bathrobe, then finally stubbed out his neglected cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. He didn’t look at Arthur’s picture again as he flipped the folder shut and turned off the lamp, ignoring the guilt gnawing his belly. Wasn’t like he was going to see Arthur ever again. Once he gave the employee assessments to Cobol in the morning, Arthur would be cleared, Eames would get his paycheck, and that would be that. No harm in a bit of fantasizing, now was there?

_Unless…_

_No. Out of the question._

As he washed his hands in the bathroom sink, he snuck a look at himself in the streaked mirror. Not that he looked his best after a 2 a.m. wank, but he still couldn’t help notice the crinkling around his eyes, the slight softness coating his belly, the fading colors of his numerous tattoos. It wasn’t so much that he felt that he was aging, but…diminishing. He used to be sharp. Hard. The best blade runner in the Bay Area, with a flawless track record. Then Polk Street had happened, and one by one, everything he’d had, everything he’d worked for had disappeared like…well, like tears in rain.

If Eames could figure out just what Arthur was up to, perhaps it would be enough to get him back into the precinct’s good graces. It certainly wouldn’t give him his license back, but it would be a good start to getting his career out of this nosedive it had been in for years. He just needed evidence, which meant seeing Arthur again.

So, yeah. Maybe he should feel a little guilty about the wank.

***********

The next morning Eames strolled into Arthur’s office, casual as you please, with his Voight-Kampff briefcase in one hand and a cardboard caddy holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee in the other.

“What are you doing back here?” Arthur asked, his dark eyebrows knitting together in confusion, more than a bit of alarm. “You said that we were done.”

“Yeah, well.” Eames turned to Arthur with a sheepish look. “I got home and realized the settings weren’t properly calibrated. Common problem with those older model Voight-Kampff machines. The test is nil, mate, I’ve got to run it again. Sorry.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. Eames tried to ignore just how tantalizing he looked with his mouth so wide open, pushing down the lustful feelings he’d indulged in the night before. Instead, he shrugged apologetically and pulled one of the coffee cups out of the caddy, handing it to Arthur.

“I got you a peace offering,” Eames said. “Judging by the color of your last cup, you take it with cream.” The second the words crossed his lips, his cheeks heated. Wow. Now…that was subtle.

If Arthur noticed the innuendo, he said nothing, though Eames wondering if he was imagining the hint of pink rimming Arthur’s ears.

“You really think a cup of coffee is going to make up for you wasting another hour of my time?” Arthur was trying to sound mad, he really was. Eames might have believed him, too, if he hadn’t spent yesterday afternoon carefully learning Arthur’s emotional responses. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit bad.

“It’s real coffee,” Eames said.

Arthur’s eyes almost bugged out of his skull. “ _Real_...Jesus! Are you a fucking millionaire in disguise?”

Natural, organically grown food has all but disappeared from Earth over a decade ago. Though science had stepped up admirably to the plate, you could still taste the difference in the lab-grown produce and cloned livestock. Coffee was one of the few natural crops that could still be found—for a steep price.

“Called in a favor,” Eames shrugged. It was true. Eames hadn’t ratted out a Union Square cafe’s “questionable” acquisition methods in exchange for a lifetime of free morning coffee. So what if it was thirty minutes out of his way? There were so few advantages to being a freelance detective that he was determined to enjoy them.

As Arthur cradled his coffee, Eames busied himself with setting up the machine and made a big show of checking all the settings. He watched Arthur out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction as he took a long, slow sip of the rich brew. His eyelids fluttered closed, his features smoothing in near rapture, and Eames thought he heard his moan low in his throat.

Christ. That was _not_ helping him concentrate.

“Been a while since you’ve had real coffee?” Eames asked casually.

“Years.” When Arthur opened his eyes, his gaze was somewhat misty, and he gave Eames a small half-smile. Eames’ heart gave a surprising lurch.

“Now, if you’ve found it in your heart to forgive my intrusion, would you mind taking your seat so we can begin?” Eames motioned towards the chair Arthur had sat in yesterday. It took all his willpower not to imagine Arthur with his legs spread, gazing up at Eames with a mix of invitation and challenge.

To recover himself, Eames reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. As Arthur’s expression screwed in annoyance, Eames pulled out a small, tin ashtray from his other pocket, and set it down very deliberately on Arthur’s desk.

“Making yourself at home now, are you?” Arthur asked dryly. Even through his stern expression the gleam of humor was unmistakable.

“That cup of coffee is worth more than your computer. I’m not putting my cigarette out in it.” Eames gave Arthur a small, crooked grin as he nodded towards the cup in Arthur’s hand.

“Fucking blade runner,” Arthur sighed, though much more amicably than before.

“Call me Eames,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Officer Eames?” Arthur asked carefully.

Eames’ stomach knotted, though he kept his expression neutral. “No. Just Eames. I’m a freelancer. I only administer the tests.”

“A freelancer?” Arthur repeated slowly. He studied Eames’ face as Eames leaned in close to place the electrodes on his temple and cheek, and Eames didn’t miss how Arthur seemed to slowly relax. Maybe it was Eames’ admission that he was technically not the law, or maybe it was the coffee. Whatever it was, Eames was glad for it.  It would make his task so much easier.

“So. Shall we get started?” Eames said brightly, as if suggesting they go to the movies or order lunch.

“Yeah. I have a meeting in an hour I can’t miss.”

“I promise I’ll have you struggling to stay awake over your spreadsheets within the hour Mr. Kenig.”

“Call me Arthur.” Arthur said quietly.

The warmth returned to Eames’ chest, strange and sweet and dangerously distracting. He reminded himself that a friendly rapport would make it easier for him to figure out Arthur’s real game by getting into his trust.

_Because that’s all you want to get into_ — _his trust. Not his pants. Right, Eames?_

“All right, then Arthur. We’ll skip straight to the abstract questions. You’re waiting for a train…”


End file.
